The Eighth Nobody
by Angela Kip
Summary: A decade and a half ago, two best friends made a promise. It turns out not every promise is worth it in the end. Oneshot, rated T for blood.


He arrives home to Sunyshore's cool breeze floating through the open windows and notes tacked onto the bulletin board. They are always there, different every day but there, and he scans them quickly. Each is from a different person. There are seven of them today, meaning he's home alone. _Went to Constance's to work on sci project_, says one, signed with a large letter K. The others are similar, all brief, every sister working on school or in the forest training Pokemon. His eyes flash as he reads these.

Jealousy? He supposes that describes it, jealousy for his older sisters that are out studying the creatures they live among. He often swears he won't be like that, that from the time he's old enough onward he'll be traveling the region and beating gym leaders. And just as often, they say he'll change his mind. But he is nine and a half, on the cusp of trainer age, past ready to train the Pikachu he got on his last birthday into the best fighter it can possibly be.

He sits at the table and rushes through his homework, since it's not on a matter that interests him - and that which does is a very narrow spectrum. Lately the only thing that seems to interest him is the matter of electric Pokemon, all forms. He can't get enough of the sizzling and crackling running under their skin, the mere thought enough to fascinate him – and it does. For nearly an hour, in fact, as he sits at the same table. It is only the phone ringing that pulls him from his thoughts, and he snatches it from its cradle.

"Hello?" And then, "Hey, Flint."

He fumbles at his belt in a way he's been practicing for six months – to look like a trainer, he says – and then snaps his fingers to get Pikachu's attention.

"Yeah, I'll be there in ten minutes, tops." He is already almost out the door as he says it, backtracking only to return the phone. His feet know the route to Flint's by themselves. The redhead is sitting on the steps to his apartment complex with a huge grin on his face.

"Yo, Volk," he says, and they exchange a high-five. "So whatcha got goin' on? Teach that little rat of yours anything new?"

"You know I can't," the other grumbles. "My mom won't let me, she's going on about how I'm not _official_ and stuff."

Flint leans back on his elbows. "Try bein' official an' your ma not lettin' you do much of anything except that dumb trainer school. What a joke."

"Bet you gym leaders need that stuff," Volkner reminds him, digging Pokemon food out of his pocket and handing it to the Pikachu and Chimchar that have flocked to their sides. "I'm gonna be the top gym leader one day."

This topic always makes Flint sit bolt upright, and it doesn't fail this time. "Oh yeah? Well, I'm gonna be somethin' even better than that."

Volkner frowns. "The Elite Four? The Champion? Oh, my mom goes on about _that_ all the time. How it's got to be rigged." He rolls his eyes.

"Well, I swear to it, man." Flint pulls out his pocketknife and, eyes never leaving his friend, slashes into his left hand. Blood pools in the center of his palm, and it makes the blond pale a little. His friend smirks. "What's wrong, hotshot? Not so hot now?"

Volkner flinches a little, but not before reaching forward. "Give," is all he says. The second the knife is in his hand, he copies his friend, and his outstretched palm is soon a pool of red. "I swear to be the top gym leader someday."

"An' I swear to be better than that." Flint reaches out and they shake hands, the crimson mixing and flowing together.

* * *

It's strange, the blond muses as he sits in the lighthouse, that "best" can mean so many things. He stares at the ocean and lets his eyes go out of focus, thinking of what he could have done with his life if he hadn't aimed to be cooped up in Sunyshore for the rest of his days. Briefly, he entertains the possibility that he's having a midlife crisis, but why would it even matter? There are so few trainers passing through these days. The newness of the region is gone, the experienced trainers already having visited his gym, and he's lost interest in battling.

And perhaps Flint feels the same way. No, why would he? There's been a rush of trainers to battle him ever since the Beacon Badge has been free for the taking. The gym leader gazes down at the old scar on his palm.

He did as promised, but not much more.


End file.
